Chapter 1

"Sherlock? Hey baby Sherlock hey guess what?"

The taunts trail behind a skinny child, shoulders thrown back, smart rucksack balanced on his eight years old back, curls erratic down the back of his neck. He pays them no attention until the voices dance in front of him, blocking his way out of the school playground. A strange term for the fighting, mocking, (he hates to say it) bullying arena the tarmac square serves for. If he were poetic he would say it were fitting, a ground for the other boys to play, him as their toy. But he isn't and right now they've surrounded him, pack animals around their prey, moving and he knew he wouldn't make it out – not when they'd spent the last hour of class muttering and shooting lingering glances at him, laughing in that way obnoxiously stupid boys do.

"Poof. That's what little Locke, you're a poof" Sherlock never will understand the 'little' that seems to attached to his name. He's actually older that one of them and taller than three.

"Faggot" Another chimes in.

"Oh but I forget, we can't blame him for it. It's his brother that gave it to him. The house must be riddled with it. I bet they sleep in the same bed and ev'rything. That's cause you love him don't you Locke you love your poof of a brother don't you" For eight year olds they were admittedly well spoken, Sherlock has to admit, even if their logic was completely flawed.

"Sherlock loves Mycroft Sherlock loves Mycroft"

They're chanting it at him, waiting for him to take his turn, make his move. And Sherlock wants to scream because of course he doesn't, he doesn't love his brother, he hates him just as he hates them and their stupid words he doesn't understand! There is a reason why Sherlock Holmes hates chess. It's all about the facade, don't make an offensive move until you can turn the tables and win. And right now Sherlock is going to lose.

At the end of march, when the garden is beginning to dry out and go from puddle between the wall and the gate into decidedly soggy green patch, that Sherlock encounters what he will later recognise as the meaning behind the word 'poof'.
He had speculated over the meaning – a matter which lead to a confusing and slightly disorientating memory of Daddy singing to him and Mummy laughing because Mycroft is a dragon trying to eat Sherlock. It's now then, when the grass is so and all the life is starting to come back from wherever it goes to eat Christmas lunch that Sherlock discovers a new, and very interesting thing to deduce.

The worm pokes back up from its hideout in the grass and already long pail, near skeletal fingers curl around it. The next thing the worm knows it's watching its patch of grass from inside a layer of glass where it's being taken further down the garden – to where the real animals hide. Sherlock grins slightly, Mummy had sighed when he explained what he was doing with her jam jars but, with the promise of "if it's bigger than the palm of your hand let it go" and that he wouldn't touch any baby animals he had been allowed outside to collect his data.

There is a mound behind the tree-house that Sherlock is standing in, welly boots too big for him sliding around in the mud slightly, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, hands deep in god knows what. It is while he is listening for the tell tale rustle of the creature he disturbed that Sherlock realises there is more than one person in his tree house.
One is shocking enough, Mycroft is extremely forbidden unless it's a very exceptional circumstance, not that he would want to go in "that childish den" anyway. But two is confusing. And Sherlock wants to know more. Something in his head tells him to go find Mummy, but if it is Mycroft escaping from them again then he certainly wouldn't want Sherlock to tell on him. Anyway, this is Sherlock's adventure and there is no room in it for Mummy. It should have been obvious really and now he's looking it's clear – there are two sets of relatively fresh footprints leading up but not coming down the ladder. Sure enough one is Mycroft's, Sherlock can tell by the pattern from his boots, but the other one is not familiar. The pair haven't been up much longer than Sherlock has been in the garden, the mud is still wet and dark but he would have seen them if they had gone up while he was outside.

Curious Sherlock climbs the ladder, careful not to tread on the existing foot-prints – they might be useful as evidence later.
If either of the pair were watching they would have seen two small hands grasp knowingly at the edge of the house, followed by a mess of dark brown curls and two startlingly grey blue eyes – wide with interest. As it is neither of them are paying attention to Sherlock, they are sat on Sherlock's solitary cushion (which has been removed from his treasure storage chest) with their backs almost fully turned. Sherlock can see his brother, head turned slightly, facing down. The second person, turned further away from him, is a lady. They have long black hair and their ear has a small silver stud gripped in it. This is how Sherlock knows they are a lady.

It is at the point where Mycroft and the lady appear to be leaning toward each other, much like Mummy and Daddy do, that Sherlock lets go of the wood and lands with a thump on the wet grass.
By the time Mycroft pokes his head out of the tree house Sherlock is already out of sight pressed against the trunk of the tree grinning to himself. His deductions had been right, there were two people in the tree. But that only poses the bigger question – what was another person doing with Mycroft in the tree, and why were they holding hands?

Well hello there, thank's for reading! Hope it wasn't too unbearable? Any feedback would be lovely...
Hopefully I'll get the next chapter finished sooner rather than later...
xxx - Thisonesforthefreaks